


The Devil

by jouissant



Series: Motel Tarot [1]
Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Infidelity, M/M, Motels, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 04:58:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4046947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/pseuds/jouissant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Where’ve you been?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil

**Author's Note:**

> Motel Tarot: 22 stories set in motels and hotels, loosely based on the major arcana of the Tarot. Because these are the ideas I get when I'm falling asleep.

Zach’s up off the bed as soon as Chris shuts the door.

“Where’ve you been?”

“I texted. I said I was running late,” Chris says, lowering the blinds. As they come down he flicks a slat with his index finger and peers through the sky-colored gap into the parking lot. Zach pretends not to notice. 

“I didn’t get it.” Zach’s phone was running low on batteries last he checked. It might be off by now, drifting around as it is in the flotsam at the bottom of his bag, but that’s neither here nor there.

Chris is working on his tie. “Well, check your phone. It’s there. What’s your deal?”

Zach’s deal is that he’s got a creeping hangover and he’s not totally sure Corey’s good for rent. Which was due yesterday. He’s avoiding the apartment in case his landlady decides to come hunt the cash down in person. This motel room beats his car, though, so he guesses he shouldn’t complain.

He lies back against the headboard, watching Chris watch the line of his t-shirt as it creeps up, baring the elastic of Zach’s briefs. “Nothing,” Zach says. “You’ve got this covered, right?”

“Of course I do.”

“Because I gave them my credit card at the desk, and I can’t really—”

“I said I’ve got it.”

Chris slips out of his jacket and tosses it onto a side chair, upholstered in mauve to match the duvet. Zach wonders when shitty motels cornered the market on a palette that looks like it takes its inspiration from the dusty, exhaust-choked flora on the side of a highway. There’s a framed poster above the dresser, one of those godawful photographs of a pale, wormy-looking infant asleep on a giant rose petal. It makes Zach want to kill himself.

“Did you bring me anything?” Zach says.

Chris rolls his eyes. “Jesus, you could at least pretend you’re here for me.” But he digs through his pants pocket after he steps out of them, and Zach’s eye traces the thick line of his cock through white cotton and tells himself that’s what’s fueling his heart’s anticipatory thump. It did once, after all.

Chris tosses Zach the baggie and a straw, and Zach fishes out his wallet and carves out a fat line on the nightstand with an expired Pennsylvania driver’s license. “You want?” he says to Chris.

“Yeah.” Chris crawls across the plasticky comforter, and yeah, Zach can still get it up for that ass, coke or no coke. He grabs a fleshy handful and squeezes as Chris leans over him.

He sits back, sniffling, rubbing at his nose with the heel of his hand. “All yours, man,” he says.

It’s good shit, but Zach doesn’t expect any less from Chris. As the drug shoots across his synapses Zach can feel the weight of his cares fall away. It’ll be short-lived, but that’s nothing new. He drops the straw back onto the nightstand. It rolls off onto the carpet, but he doesn’t retrieve it, just grins dopily and flops back onto the bed.

“You’re so hot,” Chris says, eyes roaming. “You always look so fucking hot.”

Zach looks greasy and underfed, and is under no illusions to the contrary. “You’ve got bad taste,” he says. He shakes his head. “Just, fucking—c’mere.”

Chris comes.

Their kisses are frantic— no matter how much either of them pretends at languor, it always ends up like this eventually. Hard not to with the coke simmering through Zach’s veins, each one a lit fuse, and Chris alongside him, hard in his briefs already. Zach fits his hand over the strained cotton and whistles through his teeth.

“This fat dick,” he says. “Jesus Christ. Get it out, Pine.”

Chris makes a grateful noise, dragging his briefs off. “I missed you,” he sighs. “So much.”

“This missed me,” Zach says. “But that’s okay. I missed it too.”

He shoves at Chris until he rolls over on his back obligingly. He jacks Chris’s dick just to see Chris arch off the bed, pink mouth a slack pink O, his legs falling apart, a Pavlovian inevitability. Zach sucks on his fingers and presses the knuckles to Chris’s hole. When he slips them inside, Chris cries out, biting down hard on his bottom lip as the sound dies away. He throws his head back, his eyes closed, and the certainty in his movements fills Zach with dull rage. He wants to leave Chris, he thinks, leave him with a twinging asshole and a dissipating high. But he won’t, because he’s a weak motherfucker who wants to fuck Chris and wants some more coke, and because the day outside is scorching and the AC in his car is mostly broken and this place might have roaches or bedbugs or whatever but it’s also got a hell of a window unit blowing a steady stream of air frosty enough for goosebumps. 

Chris looks down at Zach between his legs. “Please,” he says. 

Zach fumbles with his clothes, head a snare drum, eyes wandering back over to the nightstand already. He kneels between Chris’s legs and rubs the head of his dick over Chris’s hole, hocks a frothy wad of spit and lets it ooze down to where they’re touching. 

“Condom,” Chris says. 

“Oh, come on.”

 

His eyes snap open. _“Zach.”_

“You’re an asshole. I’m the one who should be worried, right? About who else you do this shit with.” He rubs his nose, sniffs. 

“Come on, don’t fuck it up. I’ve got one in my wallet.” 

Zach laughs. “Boy fucking scout.” 

He lunges across the bed and drags himself over to the pile of Chris’s clothes, pawing through it until he finds his wallet. The neat rows of cards make his fingers itch. The condom nestles in the main pocket next to Chris’s money clip, and Zach feels along the crisp edges of the bills, flicks them with his thumbnail. His back is to Chris, and Chris isn’t paying attention, and it would be the easiest thing in the world. 

“Can you not find it?” Chris asks. 

Zach drops the wallet back onto Chris’s wadded-up shirts. “I’ve got it,” he says. “Chill.” He’s got a scummy bottle of KY kicking around in his bag. Talk about a boy scout, he thinks. He pulls it out, along with his phone. Dead, like he thought.

Back on the bed, Zach strokes a circle around Chris’s hole with the pad of his thumb. Chris shivers in the cold air. Zach could turn the window unit off, but he’s too much of a glutton for it right now. Chris can deal, get back into his Beemer after this and bake. Hell, he can blast the air and turn on the goddamn seat warmers at the same time. Living the life. 

“Fuck me,” Chris says. 

Zach’s ready for another line. 

The next time they kiss, the back of Zach’s throat is numb and he feels like his heart will beat its way up through it and onto his tongue. Chris could take it in his teeth that way, sink in and shake like a terrier. 

When he bottoms out Chris groans indulgently, like he’s slipping into a hot bath. It’s the sound of deep bodily satisfaction, and it makes Zach feel like a pro, like a massage therapist or something. Maybe he should start charging, he thinks. But there’s a word for that, and therapist ain’t it. 

He slips the flat of his hand under Chris’s knee, between his calf and thigh where the skin is slick and humid. He guides his arm through til Chris’s knee is hooked over it and Zach can get into him deeper still. As they move together the room heats up, their catabolic fucking no match for the dauntless window unit. As the temperature climbs Zach begins to smell something bad, something sourish and fungal and fetid. He’s driven to distraction trying to place it til he realizes it’s him, and when he does he laughs, a snort at first and then he’s losing his shit, hiccupping into Chris’s guts. 

Chris winces up at him, coaxing his face into the tight concerned smile of someone who knows they don’t get the joke. “What?” 

“Nothing, man. Nothing.” Maybe rigor’s worn off and he’s starting to decay. Maybe he’s been here forever, this motel room a crypt and Chris his lone mourner. It would make sense. 

“Come _down_ here,” Chris says, grabbing at Zach’s forearm. “I want--” 

“No,” Zach says. 

Figures that when someone actually says no to Chris it just makes his dick harder, makes him squirm on Zach and spread his legs wider and whine like he doesn’t love it. 

“Turn over,” Zach says instead. 

Chris flips greedily, but Zach smacks him on the ass anyway. His skin is pale and there’s an angry red zit on one cheek that would embarrass Chris if he knew about it. The spanking makes Chris grunt with that same animal satisfaction he did earlier, and the sound sparks a frenzy in Zach, makes him want to hit Chris until he hurts. Instead he drives viciously back inside and fucks Chris off his hands and knees, belly down onto the mattress. He gives a soft little _oof_ at the impact and his body goes limp right away, rolling forward and back with the machine gun staccato of Zach’s hips. 

“That’s right, fucking take it,” Zach mutters. 

Chris response is muffled, high and a little panicky, a laugh or a moan. Zach can’t tell, and he doesn’t care. Another shiver works its way down through Chris’s body; Zach can feel it in his balls. 

“Take it,” he says again. Then, because of the rent and the broken air conditioning and that fucking gold band on Chris’s left hand: “Who else? Who else can give it to you like this?” 

Zach splays his hand on Chris’s cheek and pushes down into the pillow, his pinkie trailing through the wet at the corner of Chris’s eye. “Who else, Chris?” 

Zach can taste copper on the back of his tongue and here it is, here’s his heart. At least, he thinks, he’ll finally be free of it. He spits again, and oh how he wishes it was red. The saliva trails down the side of Chris’s face and disappears to soak the pillow. 

“Nobody,” Chris gasps, teeth chattering. “Nobody.”


End file.
